


Canticle of Fire

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3289721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Remember one thing," says Duncan softly. "No Grey Warden is ever alone." "Yes. Yes," she repeats slowly, understanding that maybe he is right. Grey Wardens. Brothers in arms. For the first time, she wonders what does Duncan mean to her, but the only answer she can come up with is: he is there. The only remotely familiar face in a crowd of strangers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Embers

 

Fergus would hate to catch her doing that, but she _has_  to see her brother going off to war. She climbs the stairs leading up to the battlements, then hides in the shadow beside one of the towers, so that Fergus would not see her. She watches her brother marching away, sudden fear seizing her heart.

“Maker watch over us,” she whispers into the night.

“Maker watch over us,” echoes a male voice behind her.

She turns, surprised.        

“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to scare you,” says Duncan, the Grey Warden.

“You didn’t. Just startled me.”

“If you’d rather wish me leave...”

“No, it’s fine.” She recalls her earlier talk with him, and is thankful for the deep shadow that hides her blush. Still, she looks away. “I apologise for... earlier. For that attempt at flirting. I didn’t really mean that... I’d never...”

“No need to torment yourself over that, my lady.”

“Well, my earlier remark certainly wasn’t ladylike...”

“Forgotten,” offers Duncan amiably. “You were hoping for some amusement at my expense, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he assures, the most banal phrase in the world, and yet in his mouth it only sounds sincere.

“Will Ser Gilmore join the Wardens?”

“Yes. Even if from what I’ve heard you might be better suited for that.”

“Father said...” The Wardens are a legend, even if somehow forgotten, and it has certain appeal. But when she thinks of what old chronicles mentioned about the horrors of a Blight... “Father said if it’s a Blight, he might reconsider.”

“I hope he won’t have to.”

She glances at him. Duncan is looking down, at the road, probably thinking of soldiers going to war. There is something almost sad in the expression on his face, barely visible in the moonlight.

“What’s a Blight like?” she asks, with morbid curiosity. “Some chronicles mention it, but more like a myth or legend. I’d like to know.”

“No,” Duncan replies, fiercely. “No, you wouldn’t,” he repeats, in a calmer, softer tone. “Believe me, my lady, you wouldn’t.”

* * *

 

Leaving Highever smells of smoke and sounds of fire roaring and men dying, and of her mabari hound’s howling. Feels wet and sticky, like Father’s blood on her fingers, has its colour and smell, the tang of copper or maybe iron.

As she unsheathes the Cousland family sword, stained red, she swears that there will be justice. It will not bring her parents back, nor Fergus’ wife or son, but that burning ache in her chest will not cease until it is _Howe’s_ blood on that blade.

“I will have his head,” she whispers hotly under her breath. Before she is able to repeat it, Duncan is beside her, his grip on her shoulder painful.

“No, you will not,” he says sternly. “A Grey Warden has duties more important than vengeance.”

“Haven’t you seen what he’s done?” she asks, voice hollow.

“Even so,” Duncan says levelly, and it is too much.

“ _Mother_  and _Father_ are dead, and I will have to tell my brother that, and I will have to tell him his _wife_  and _son_  are gone too...” she gasps for breath. “So don’t tell me of Grey Warden’s duties!”

“Blight will take a far more terrifying toll.”

She moves her hand to slap him on the cheek, because how dare he be so calm when she has lost everything. The blow never connects. Duncan is holding her wrist, his hold firm but gentle, and it sobers her enough to actually see the look on his face. His eyes seek hers, and in his gaze she finds sadness and compassion, and similar feelings are etched on his features.

“I don’t need... you pity...” she spits through clenched teeth, on the verge of tears.

“I’m offering none,” he says gently. “Nothing will bring your parents back, not even revenge. But you can make their death meaningful, by living.”

She raises her hand to her mouth, because she is going to burst into sobs any moment now...

“We have to go. Just a little further.” Duncan is talking to her as if she was a little child, patiently. “We have to.”

She nods, swallowing tears, but there are only a few. Marching helps her not to think, there is only the road, dust, trees...

Even as they settle a tiny camp – just a fire and a makeshift bedroll put together from a worn woollen blanket and Duncan’s cloak – that, too, allows her not to think and... A howl cuts through the air. Guilford, her mabari, is sitting at the border of firelight, howling, howling, why cannot he stop howling?!

“Quiet, boy,” orders Duncan gently and, surprisingly, the mabari stops.

Guilford moves over to sit beside her, and she puts her arms around him and finally lets the tears flow. First she cries quietly, then begins to sob, and then Guilford is howling again but she lets him, because it is his way of crying, and it makes her feel less alone in sorrow. She keeps crying until she is out of breath and is choking on the sobs, and then she is crying again.

Tears are still trickling down her cheeks when she settles down on the bedroll, curling up, knees almost at her chin, just as she used to curl up when she was frightened or sad as a child. There is a gentle, lingering touch on her shoulder.

“Try to get some sleep,” Duncan murmurs. “No more harm will befall you today.”

* * *

 

“Sleep,” Duncan suggests, in a low voice, as she is lying awake on a makeshift bedroll.

“I can’t.” It is all very easy to say ‘Sleep’, but the forest at night is a strange place to her. Every shadow is moving, and all the time something is rustling and hooting and making other noises she cannot really categorise, and it is all too unsettling for her to fall asleep.

“You slept yesterday,” he remarks.

“Out of exhaustion,” she replies quietly. Yesterday, she cried herself to sleep. Today, there are no more tears to shed – she feels them, ready somewhere under her eyelids, waiting for the moment she will either have to tell Fergus of everything or hear about his death. But now her eyes are dry and her head hurts, but her eyes flutter open with every new noise, because it can be a wolf or  _darkspawn_  or _Howe’s men_. “How is it possible to sleep with all the noise?” she asks, trying to disguise fear as irritation.

Duncan pretends he falls for her trick. “That’s an owl,” he says, when something high in the trees hoots. “And that’s a hedgehog,” he adds, when something rustles in a nearby bush. “And that’s a wolf, but it’s far and nothing to worry about.”

“And the darkspawn?”

“We don’t have to worry about darkspawn here.”

“And...” she wants to ask what if Howe’s men are after them, but her throat constricts and no words come through.

“They won’t find us here. Besides, your mabari would find them first.” Duncan reaches out to pat Guilford on the head, and the mabari barks happily. “There, boy.” He scratches the obviously contended mabari behind the ears. “Now go keep your lady warm, mhm?”

“Guilford!” she calls softly.

The mabari rushes to her and curls up beside her, warm like fireplace stones.

Duncan looks at her and the mabari at her side, and his face softens. “Sleep. We’ll stand watch.” Guilford turns towards his voice, and Duncan adds: “Won’t we, boy?”

She falls into an uneasy slumber, last things she hears a barely audible, undistinguishable melody, even, lulling her to sleep.

* * *

 

By the time they find a small cave, they are drenched. There is a pile of dry wood inside, an old fire striker and some tinder. And what looks like two old, woollen blankets.

“We have more such places across Ferelden,” Duncan explains, noticing her puzzled look. “Or used to, at least.”

He tends to lighting a fire.

“We have to dry off and keep warm.” And then he gets up and proceeds to take off his armour, casually, like he must have done countless times while on the road.

But she was brought up in a castle, and while she is no stranger to wielding a weapon, she has always had a separate room and is used to privacy. She looks away, knowing she is supposed to shed her armour and wrap herself in the blanket to dry, but right now she feels too uncomfortable about it. Her logical side yells at her to grow up and get to action already, because the least she needs is getting ill, but...

“Ah. I’m sorry,” Duncan says, noticing her discomfort. He turns away, his back to her, allowing her as much privacy as possible under the circumstances.

“ _I_ ’m sorry,” she mumbles, furious at herself. As Duncan grabs the hem of his tunic to take it off, she turns away, too. “I know I’ll have to get used to this.”

“You don’t have to start right now,” he says patiently.

She quickly gets out of the tunic and looks around for the blanket, and finally glances above her shoulder hesitantly. Duncan is standing with his back to her, already wrapped in the wool, another blanket in his outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, taking the blanket and quickly covering herself. “I’m decent,” she mutters, not really knowing what to do or say. It is all strange to her.

They sit by the fire and eat in silence: dry bread and smoked meat. Guildford whines quietly, and she is already offering the mabari a slice of meat when Duncan stops her.

“That’s for your lady,” he says to the mabari. “Go hunt, boy.”

Guilford does not seem happy with that, but since the rain has already stopped, he trots out of the cave and into the night.

They sit beside the fire, without talking, just watching the flames and sipping water. She rubs her hands, but they do not want to warm up, and despite the woollen blanket she shivers with cold.

Duncan notices. He rearranges his blanket a bit, then moves his hand, motioning her to sit beside him. When she reluctantly does so, he puts an arm around her, covering her with a part of his blanket. She is trying very hard not to think that beneath the blankets they are almost naked, and how uncomfortable this makes her, because he only does this out of kindness.

As she warms up slowly, her eyelids slid close, and her head lolls onto his shoulder.

“Duncan?” she mutters.

“Yes?”

“Yesterday, when I was falling asleep... I think I heard... a song?”

“Ah, that.” He gives a quiet laugh. “Yes. Though, with my lack of skill, ‘a song’ might be an overstatement.”

“What was it?”

“It’s from old times. When there were more Wardens, more Keeps, when we even had songs to keep up our spirits during the nights spend by fire.”

“Would you tell me? Of Grey Wardens,” she specifies.

“If you wish.”

They sit like that for some time, keeping each other warm, Duncan telling one story after another in a level voice. It feels like a place on the verge of Fade, if rather would, if Fade was calm and peaceful.

“There are more stories, but they’re all similar,” Duncan says, after finishing yet another tale. “All blood and darkness.” He pauses. “But also hope. To remind us we can fight off the darkness.”

“At terrible cost.”

“I pay willingly,” Duncan says, his voice holding nothing but honesty within. “Someone has to pay,” he adds quietly.

* * *

 

Duncan points at the makeshift bedroll, scrambled together from his old cloak and worn blanket, with Guilford as a warm, furry pillow.

“Sleep,” he says, a concerned order.

She shakes her head. “It’s your turn.”

“Don’t be...” Ridiculous? Childish? Whatever he meant to say is lost as she interrupts him.

“I can manage.” She offers a tiny smile. “That’s an owl,” she says, when something high in the trees hoots. “And that’s a hedgehog,” she adds, when something rustles in a nearby bush. “And that’s a wolf, but it’s far and nothing to worry about. Besides, if it was, Guilford would take care of it first.”

Duncan watches her for a moment, stoic as ever, just by the time it takes him to react she can guess he is mildly surprised. “Very well. Wake me for my watch.” And then he smiles, just barely, the smile strangely soft against his features. “Now, boy, go.” He shoos Guilford away, then lies down. He falls asleep quickly – no stranger to life on the road.

She watches him, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he breathes, the suddenly troubled expression on his face, the frown between his eyebrows. She looks around for the darkspawn momentarily, but the notices Guildford is lying down at her feet calmly, basking in the warmth from the fire, and it calms her down.

Nightmares, then. She wonders what do Grey Wardens dream of. Or is it like in the stories: darkness and blood. She remembers there is hope, but it is difficult to notice sometimes.

When her watch ends, she moves and kneels beside Duncan. The frown is still clouding his face, and, very gently, she reaches out to touch his temple. It lasts but a fleeting moment, and then she puts a hand on his shoulder, more firmly, and shakes gently.

“Wake up, Duncan.”

He is awake in no time, and it is her turn to settle down on the bedroll as he sits on the log by the fire.

She cannot sleep, again. Remembering Father’s last words.

“Duncan?” she ask quietly.

He turns towards her, his profile stark again the firelight. “Yes?”

“Back in... Highever...” she begins. “If Father had said no... You would have helped me nonetheless?” she asks, knowing the words are true as she speaks them. She has not given him enough credit so far, blinded by her loss. But that was not his fault. She looks up at him, expectantly.

“Yes,” Duncan says quietly. “But remember, it is your decision, not your father’s.”

“He gave you his word.”

“He gave me his consent. It’s up to you.”

“I agreed.”

Duncan stays quiet for some time. He sighs and then finally speaks. “I came to Highever to find a Grey Warden recruit, yes. But you were in no condition to promise anything. Think it over. You’ll give me the answer when we reach Ostagar.”

“Yes,” she says decisively. The path is clear before her.

“Excuse me?”

“Your answer, Duncan, is yes. You told me yourself I can make... Highever... mean something.”

“I never meant...”

“I know,” she interrupts gently. “And it’s still yes.”

* * *

 

“You said there is hope,” she says suddenly.

They are sitting beside the fire, Duncan on a log, she on the ground next to him, Guilford dozing off at her feet.

“There’s always hope.”

“In the fact we can fight back?” she asks.

“No.” Duncan shakes his head. “Well, that too, but that’s not what I meant.” He falls silent again.

She does not feel like baiting him into talk. She settles more comfortably, stretching out on the blanket, leaning her head against the log.

“You’ll give your life away so that other girls can live safely with their families,” Duncan says finally, his voice quiet. “Just as I gave mine so that someone else might be a husband and a father.”

She looks up at him, startled.

“Surprised?” Duncan smiles slightly. “I’m a Grey Warden, yes, but I used to dream sometimes.”

“What about now?”

“I’m a Grey Warden.”

“It’s not an answer, Duncan.”

His hand in resting on the log, and as she shifts, her hair brush against his fingers, but he seems oblivious to that.

“It is.”

She can deal with things like this, small-talk turned serious talk, and serious matters disguised as half-serious remarks. She is a noble, she has been doing this all her life.

“You’ve probably made some woman very unhappy when you became a Warden,” she says, feeling the corners of her lips tugging up in what is the closest imitation of a smile she has managed since leaving Highever. This is no attempt on flirting, merely an observation: Duncan is an honourable, honest man.

“As you’ll make some man very unhappy after your Joining,” Duncan replies, his look warm. “Some say Wardens are wed to Ferelden and its safety. Well, they certainly say that of me.”

“What it’s like? Being a Grey Warden?”

His gaze turns solemn, measuring, as he is guessing what she is asking about. Finally, he speaks. “There are nightmares.”

“Like those stories you’ve been telling me?”

“Worse during a Blight, or so I was told.”

“So it’s a Blight we’ll be facing?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Silence, again. Talking comes in turns either deceitfully easy or surprisingly difficult to them.

She closes her eyes, then begins humming a melody Nan taught her once. She always liked it, as a child, used to always sing it in the evening by the fireplace, with Mother and Father and Fergus. It echoed legends. It reminds her, painfully, of home and childhood and...

 Tears flow down her cheeks, but she lets them. Tomorrow, at Ostagar, the past will end. Tomorrow, she will cease to be a Cousland...

Duncan’s palm touches her head, stroking her hair softly, comforting.

“This melody has been hummed across Ferelden households since Grey Wardens were founded,” he murmurs gently. “ _This_  is our hope.”

* * *

 

Ostagar is... overwhelming. The ruined fortress is still remarkable, the mountains magnificent. And while there is nothing menacing in the forest or distant snowy peaks, the ruins themselves are imposing. It chills her, in the same way Duncan stories of Grey Warden’s have – but that was during the night, in the forest where everything moved and shivered and made noise, and now it is broad daylight and there is a whole _army_  assembled, and it still feels more frightening.

She catches Duncan looking at her. For a moment it seems he will speak, maybe say “You are afraid” or something else along the lines, but he remains silent.

The silence is strained, not the comfortable companionship they shared in the wilds. Something was left on the borders of Ostagar.

In the night, there is a fire at their part of the camp, and Duncan is sitting beside it, and all the noises around are well known to her, and maybe that is why it feels different. Maybe that is why they scarcely talk, because there is no need to explain that “That’s a squirrel” and “That’s a hedgehog” and “That’s a wolf but it’s far enough not to worry about it”.

She strokes Guilford’s furry head, wondering why in this camp full of people she feels more lonely than on the way, when it was just her and Duncan.

Guilford barks, happy with the attention he is getting.

“Hush, boy,” she reproaches quietly, and when the mabari whines, she feels a similar whine resounding somewhere in her. A Grey Warden walks a lonely path.

Firewood cracks in the flames, and she watches. Soon, it will turn to embers, and the into ashes. Her life turned to ashes, everyone she holds dear dead, except for Fergus, but the thought she will have to tell him pains her even more. Besides, Fergus too might already be dead.

She moves closer to the fire, taking a dying ember into her hand.

“You’ll get burned,” Duncan says quietly, but does not stop her.

“I already have,” she says, thinking of her family, her brother, her home, and that something she shared with Duncan on the way – warm like an ember and equally short-lived.

Duncan sighs. He gets up and takes the ember from her palm, then throws it back into the fire.

“You’ll need you hands ready to hold a sword.” His fingers move along her hand gently, searching for any damage.

“I’m fine, Duncan.”

“No, you’re not,” he contradicts. He lets go of her hand. “But you will be.”

They fall quiet, sitting and watching the fire. Around there are muffled noises of a war camp getting ready for a night’s rest.

“Remember one thing,” says Duncan softly. “No Grey Warden is ever alone.”

“Yes. Yes,” she repeats slowly, understanding that maybe he is right. Grey _Wardens_. Brothers in arms. She looks up at Duncan, to find him watching her. Their eyes meets. It is all there ever will be, stories by the fireside and a shared glance once and again. But she can trust him to be there. Maybe that is what matters the most.

For the first time, she wonders what does Duncan mean to her, but the only answer she can come up with is: he is there. The only remotely familiar face in a crowd of strangers. But then what is it for him? He kept his word, got her out of the Highever castle safely. His part of the bargain is done.

“Duncan?” she whispers, torn between uncertainty if she should ask it, and the burning need to learn the answer immediately. “Why...?” the question is gone the very moment she starts asking, and what is left of it is a single baffled word.

“There’s a saying you become responsible for the life you saved. Or maybe it’s one of the Chants, I never know.”

“You don’t have to feel responsible,” she corrects evenly. The words taste bitter on her tongue.

Duncan puts a hand on her shoulder briefly, a gesture that is nothing inappropriate between a soon-to-be-Warden and the Warden Commander.

“No,” he says softly. “I don’t _have_ to.”


	2. Ashes

Everything is so sharp and clear that she knows it has to be a dream. The clarity lasts only for a moment, and then fog envelops everything.  A splash of water, once, twice, again and again. It takes her some time to discover there is water under her feet, and tiny waves splatter as she moves. The foggy curtain parts slightly, and she can see tree silhouettes, strange shadows in the gloom. Slowly, a forest unfolds before her.

She looks around, inhaling sharply as she recognizes the place. Korcari Wilds. As the thought gains shape in her mind, everything around her speeds up to a blur, but a glimpse is enough to recognize the events.

Glint of Duncan’s sword and of the Joining chalice, and then everything goes red with darkspawn blood. Cailan’s face, overconfident, and Loghain’s, a mask, and Duncan’s, worried. And then hell breaks loose, men are dying, the sky is raining fire as they run towards the tower. They are on the top, lighting the beacon, and there is a burning pain and... For a moment she is flying, suspended in the air and time, and beneath her is the battle of Ostagar, frozen into a terrible picture painted with steel and blood. She glimpses a familiar figure, and suddenly she is down there in the midst of the fight, only that she is not – a shadow, a ghost, able only to watch, and even though she feels the familiar weight of her family sword in her hand it just passes through the darkspawn in a misty arc.

And there is Duncan, kneeling in a growing pool of blood, _his_  blood, his armour stained red, and they are coming at him and she can do nothing, nothing at all, and still she cries out: “Duncan!”, a terrified shrill call. And, Maker, Duncan turns towards her, and she can see it in his eyes that he knows it is his death. One of the darkspawn is already flinging his axe, and... She closes her eyes, but not quickly enough, and there is an afterimage of a bloody trail burned underneath her eyelids.

Guilford whines beside her as she opens her eyes. There is a warm bedroll beneath her, a woollen blanket over her and the camp fire is burning, and yet she feels chilled to the bone.

“Come, boy,” she murmurs, and the mabari scoots closer. She leans against the hound, wondering how much does Guilford really comprehend, or whether he simply senses her mood so well.

“You’re all right?” Alistair asks, noticing she is awake.

“Just a nightmare,” she mumbles, in no mood to talk.

“If you’re certain you’re all right...”

“Yes,” she says, decisively, forcing her voice to remain calm and even. _No_ , she thinks, _No._ It was just a dream, and it is impossible, but she cannot get rid of the feeling it was her fault. Because in the dream, it seemed that had she not called him...

“I miss him,” she whispers into Guilford’s fur, the words barely more audible than a breath.

She has lost the firm ground beneath her feet once before, in Highever. And lost it all over again with Duncan’s death, because he, even if not yet familiar, was not a total stranger. And knew what to do. And even that knowledge was taken from her.

Guilford licks her hand, in an attempt at comforting her. The mabari has been a most loyal friend, devoted to her completely, but no matter how smart he is, he is just a hound.

She remembers what Morrigan said about how Ostagar had looked after the battle, and bites her lip, trying not to cry, because tears will do her no good. But it is difficult to keep calm, knowing that if and when there will be time, there might be nothing left to be buried. Her parents, at least, had the burning castle of Highever as their funeral pyre. It breaks something within her to think that after his faithful service, Duncan will not have even that.

* * *

 

The Weisshaupt Fortress is beautiful, in its eerie kind of way: all white and brightness. The peace is deep here, and maybe that is why something feels amiss. She is certain there is something she is supposed to do, but cannot remember.

Someone is standing at the far end of the courtyard, or maybe it is a nave... She approaches, without the usual wariness, for no harm could come to her, not here. Another step further and she freezes, then quickens her pace. It is Duncan. Duncan, alive! But of course. How can she be so foolish. Why should he not be alive if they defeated the archdemon and ended the Blight?

Duncan welcomes her – hearing his voice again moves her in the way homecomings always have – and begins to tell her of their victory and the peace they reached, and how they will now be keepers of history and tales. There is nothing she would like more. She has never wanted adventures – books and stories have been enough to her. She is skilled with blade, yes, but the training has never been more than a pleasurable routine, ‘just in case’, and she hoped she would never have to put those skills to a test. She has always wanted a quiet life, and to be able to enjoy little everyday shards of happiness; she has never needed more, she does not need more now. She will not get her family back, but there is Duncan...

Duncan. The Duncan she knows would never allow himself be idle, even if the threat of a Blight was gone. Whatever is standing before her – Maker help her, looking at her with his eyes, talking to her in his voice – is not Duncan.

In a blink of an eye, everything comes back to her sharp and clear – the Circle, the demon, the Fade, she is in the Fade – and then she has to draw her blade. It is a demon, or a shadow, some creature of the Fade, or maybe just an illusion, but when she strikes it down no mirage dispels, and so it still has Duncan’s face, and for a moment that face looks at her as the real Duncan might have, deeply shocked and infinitely sad at her betrayal.

Much later, when she finally gets out of the Fade, the image still hovers under her eyelids, and it is still there in the evening, so painfully clear she does not dare fall asleep that night.

* * *

 

It is Korcari Wilds once again. She is alone, re-walking the path to the ruined Warden keep. But, unlike the real location, those dream Wilds are utterly quiet: no birds, no wind, only silence, so loud it echoes.

As she kneels and leans over the chest, she freezes, a sickening certainty of what she will find there squeezing the air out of her lungs and clutching at her throat. And then, there are footsteps behind her, and it should be Morrigan...

But it is a dream, and it is the _Fade_ , so it is not Morrigan.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for here,” says a familiar voice, and it is like a backstab, so powerful she curls up inside.

“Be gone, whatever you are, demon or Fade spirit.”

“I am neither.”

She wakes up with a gasp. Around her, there is the familiar darkness of the tent, and a blurry dot of light where the camp fire is noticeable through the canvas. She sits up, hiding her face in her hands.

“Leave me be,” she whispers desperately into the night. “Leave me be, whoever...” she does not finish. It is not possible, it cannot be, but she is not able to find it in herself to finish the sentence, even if there is only an illusion of a chance.

She has heard and read stories how people fell into traps of Fade demons, lured by similar mirages. Only she now understands all too well why they let themselves get caught into those traps.

* * *

 

The Chantry claims souls pass through the Fade on their way to afterlife. Some say they pass _into_  the Fade. No one knows for certain.

And she is beginning to wonder what happens when a Grey Warden dies, because they all have the taint running through their veins. And is Fade not a realm of the tainted?

She is tempted to ask, but whom? Who will know for certain? Who will hear her out and not betray her secret afterwards, and, first and foremost, will not think her completely mad?

“Wynne?” she asks one night in the camp, when it is well past midnight and she cannot fall asleep. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, child.”

“You’ve walked the Fade, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Wynne hesitates. “You’re not going to ask me to go there?”

“No, no. I couldn’t. I just wanted to ask... Were there souls? Because some say...”

“Ah, that. Yes, some say souls don’t just cross the Fade, but stay there.”

“And?” she asks, anxiously.

The mage sighs. “It’s the Fade, child. There’s no real telling what is what, not even for us mages. I’m afraid there’s no telling whatsoever to those without the gift.”

“What about dreams? Is there a way to tell when they are just an illusion, and when something more?”

“You’re a Grey Warden. When you dream of a Blight, it’s a vision, of past, of future, it’s hard to tell. But of course you already know that.” Wynne watches her closely. “Ah. It’s something else, isn’t it?”

She keeps silent. It is too... complicated, painful... personal?

“You think you met a soul in the Fade?” the mage asks.

Slowly, she nods.

“Someone close to you?”

“A friend.”

Wynne’s eyes narrow slightly as if the mage was trying to see with more than eyes. “There’s... Well, it’s not knowledge, more of a rumour,” Wynne says eventually. “The Fade is a tainted realm, and some think those tainted do not cross over further, not until the Fade is purged.”

“Those tainted?”

“Some of those killed by darkspawn. Blood mages.” Wynne pauses. “Wardens, even though they embrace the taint willingly for a more noble reason. Does this answer your question?” Wynne smiles apologetically. “Well, I know it wasn’t much of an answer. But I’m afraid I can’t be of any more help.”

“Thank you, Wynne.”

She intends to return to her bedroll, but the mage stops her.

“There’s one more thing,” Wynne says, her brow furrowed slightly. “Technically, with the Fade being a tainted realm, and you bearing the taint... Well, in theory, you should be able to discern a demon from a Fade spirit and so on.” The mage looks worried. “It’s not safe. But that’s all I’ve got.”

“Would you know if that was a demon?”

“If that was your average demon, dear, we’d all have noticed by now,” Wynne answers wryly. “But be careful.”

“I will. Thank you, Wynne.”

“If you’d like me to watch over you...”

“If it’s a demon, Alistair would know what to do with me.”

Wynne hesitates for a while, then speaks again. “You can’t cling to the past so desperately, child.”

She shakes her head. “It’s our past that made us what we are.”

* * *

 

There is a kind of fortress, overlooking a mountain pass. For the first time nothing in the dream seems amiss. The place is not calm, not exactly, more like an eye of the storm, a safe haven in the sea of blood, but there it is: a single point of light. No light is visible, of course, but she feels warmer and safer than before. Still, she is cautious, and that alone makes her feel safer – she can face the danger if only she is able to spot it in time.

She climbs the wide steps and walks through the main gate and into the courtyard. The taint in her vein whispers, but not of darkspawn. Wardens?

Metal clatters against the stone as someone walks out of the shadows. The presence is ghostly, but does not seem to be a demon or Fade spirit, not quite. Not that demons cannot disguise themselves...

“Welcome, Warden,” the spectre says in a female voice. Its – her? – face is hidden underneath a helmet.

She reaches to touch her sword, but the phantom does not move.

“No harm will befall you here, child. But you are right to be wary, for we are in the Fade.”

She does not reply.

“He’s not here,” the spectre informs.

“What ‘he’? Where’s here? Who are you?”

“The one you’re looking for.” The spectre takes the helmet off: it has a female face, slightly blurred, and eyes with stare sharp like a hawk’s. “I am Sophia Dryden,” the spectre says, coming closer, close enough so that the emblem on her armour is recognizable. Grey Wardens’ emblem. “Welcome to Warden’s Keep.”

She stares, unable to react, stunned by the revelation. This could be a demon, a spirit... but then, why would the taint tell her it is indeed a Grey Warden?

Sophia Dryden looks at her intently. “It’s our past that made us what we are. Look at the beginning, and you’ll find what you’re seeking.”

She meets the spectre’s eyes. “Sophia Dryden,” she says slowly, “show me the way to Ostagar.”

* * *

 

Ostagar is empty: only her and mountain wind among stone walls. She walks across the vast fortress in decisive steps. She will either get her answer or end up fighting another demon. She has done this before; shall the demon assume Duncan’s face again, she will fight him regardless.

The Joining chalice is there, on the stone table. She puts both hands to it and leans to look inside. The surface of blood is a dark mirror, gleaming... There is a flash of movement behind her, and she stills completely, fixing her stare on a distant point before her.

“Duncan,” she calls, quiet but clear.

A hand touches her forearm and she jumps, whirling around, knocking the chalice off the table, the blood spilling at her feet. Duncan is standing there, looking just like in that dream of Weisshaupt, and for a moment she cringes inwardly. Maker, not again, not again...

But this Duncan does not speak, merely looks at her.

“I need answers,” she pleads. “Please help me?”

“I have no answers for you,” he says, exactly as the real Duncan might.

“I don’t know where to find them!” she is desperate, because the country is falling apart and she is expected to gather an army to stop the Blight and, Maker kelp her, she does not know how to do it when everything seems to be against her.

“Keep searching,” he says. “Just never stop searching,” he adds, in a softer, encouraging tone, and suddenly she is certain that this _is_  Duncan. “It’s time.” He turns, ready to walk away.

“Time for what? Duncan?” Right this moment, she does not remember about the Blight, about Warden’s duty, she allows herself to be selfish and think that she is lonely and how she cannot bear losing him all over again, cannot bear losing _anyone_  else right now. “Duncan! Don’t leave me!”

Duncan stops, giving her one last look over his shoulder. There is a shade of smile on his lips. “No Grey Warden is ever alone. Whatever happens, remember that.”

She does not call after him when he is walking away. She knows he would not stop.

In the morning, when she is putting on her armour and leather gloves, there is a hand imprint on her skin on the spot where Duncan touched her.


	3. Sparks

The night is calm, deceptively so. Leliana is singing another ballad, Wynne is making her refreshing herbal tea, Morrigan is preparing another portion of curing potions, and Alistair is talking to Guilford. Everything seems so peaceful...

She is curled up beside the fire, looking through the ancient Warden treaties. Thinking where to go next, what to do next. _What would_ you _do, Duncan? Where would_ you _go?_

Alistair laughs at something, drawing her gaze to him. He seems happy, enjoying a rare moment of peace. She looks away, but her thoughts remain focused on him. Being a senior Warden, Alistair stepped down to let her take over the command. He follows, fighting at her side and helping as much as he can... But the fact is that he shunned responsibility. Gave the command over to a girl right after her Joining, unfamiliar with the Wardens’ ways and with fighting the Blight. Oh, she knows how to use a sword, and all the things a girl of noble birth should know, most of which will be of no use to her right now.

She has no idea what to do. Her companions offer advice, often contradicting one another, but the decisions are hers. She never wanted that much responsibility... She never wanted to live through real adventures, content to read and listen about them. She certainly never wanted to lead a war.

Later in the night, when she crawls under the blanket on her bedroll, she draws a picture in her mind. Ostagar, Duncan, Ostagar, Duncan...

“You said I will never be alone,” she whispers into the dark. “Now prove it.”

* * *

 

Ostagar is different from before, no longer peaceful. It is dark and empty an eerily silent. She walks on. She is there for a single purpose.

There is a faint sound of laboured breathing, and as she hears it she speeds up to a run. She recognizes the walls among which the Joining took place – and there, on the stone floor, lies Duncan, in a pool of blood. Only now she has been expecting it all: seeing his death, the blood, the hostility of the familiar place.

She kneels beside Duncan, putting both her hands over his wounds, to slow down the blood flow.

“Duncan,” she whispers fervently. “Stay with me. Duncan?”

He opens his eyes and look up at her, oddly serene. Waiting for her to finish what she wants to say. His blood is seeping through her fingers, and his face already has a noticeable pallor to it, but she is not here to save him. She cannot save him, now she understands. She can only continue fighting for what he has been fighting for.

“Duncan, you have to tell me.”

Duncan smiles at her faintly, putting his gauntleted hand over both of hers. “Now... you understand...” he murmurs, then closes his eyes.

She clutches at his side more tightly, hoping to stop the bleeding for a moment, not caring it must be hurting him.

“You can’t,” she whispers fiercely. “I _need_  to know. You had no time to teach me, your work is not over yet. So don’t you _dare_  abandon your duties, Duncan of Grey Wardens.”

Duncan opens his eyes, and his stare is sharp and completely lucid. “Don’t you see? You already know everything.”

When she wakes up, her hands are shaking. She has been so blind before... She has seen proof, many times, but it took _a dream_  to become aware what a Grey Warden’s duty really is. No glory, no appeal, only service. There have to be sacrifices.

Only now, the past is truly gone. “Forgive me, Father. Forgive me, Mother.” Howe is of no importance other than being a possible threat to the unity of Ferelden when they need it most. It hurts to realise she truly is no Cousland any longer... but she has no time to dwell on that.

“Maker, forgive us all,” she whispers, only now fully understanding the words, and then she wonders if they really need forgiveness, since they are doing it for the greater good? But then she thinks that if she ever allows duty to become her shield, she is already lost.

* * *

 

There is a peak looming over the path: Warden’s Keep. She climbs the steps slowly, not really knowing what she is looking for. Sophia Dryden is standing at the top of the stairs, watching her carefully.

“It’s not your time yet,” Sophia Dryden says.

“It’s all right, Sophia,” Duncan steps forth. “She’s dreaming.”

“Keep an eye on her, Duncan. She shouldn’t be here.” Sophia’s ghostly brow frowns in concentration. “Unless...”

Duncan raises his hand, and Sophia falls silent.

“It’s a talk for another time.”

“Very well, Duncan.” Sophia walks away. “Until supper.”

“Would you like me to show you around?” Duncan asks casually, when Sophia’s steps die in the distance.

She nods, smiling.

They are standing on the top of the tower, looking down. There is a mountains pass, pooling with mist, but it does not look gloomy like the mist usually does in the Fade. It looks... soft. Comforting.

“What is it?” she asks, pointing out.

“That’s the Pass,” Duncan says. There is more to it, but from the tone of his voice it is evident he will say no more now.

“Earlier...” Her thoughts are slightly blurry, as often in a dream. “Sophia mentioned supper. Do you... I mean...”

“Do we eat?” Duncan smiles. “You could say so. I think we’re just so used to life we cling to some habits all too much. So much that sometimes, when we forget, we even feel pain.”

She turns to Duncan, then her fingers begin tracing a pattern on his armour.

“Do you dream?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I see you. Heard your talk with Alistair last time...”

She sighs. “He misses you.”

“You’ve lost much more than he has.”

“I have no heart to remind him of that.” Her hand is resting on Duncan armour now. She keeps her eyes down. “When we talked... Alistair mentioned that Warden from Andersfeld and how they got drunk, and how you laughed... And then how he’d like to have a token to remember you by... And I only thought how I’ve never heard you laughing, not truly...” She moves her palm slowly, so that it is resting above Duncan’s heart... and it finally gets to her how he does not react. Not a word, not a gesture, not even a change in breath. She closes her eyes briefly and steps away. “I’m sorry, Duncan. I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s all right,” he says, in this calm voice of his.

She looks up, but when she meets Duncan’s eyes the look there is kind. Only that. She cannot even bring herself to feel truly disappointed – she has been expecting that. That is reasonable.

“You’ve never mentioned your Calling.” This is not a reproach, or at least she hopes it does sound like one. Strange, but she does not begrudge him for not telling her of the full cost of becoming a Warden. What does it matter after she has drunk from the Joining chalice? The taint is not something that can be changed, nor are its effects. Besides, she decided on the road to Ostagar. Was she to decide again now, her choice would be the same.

“Time wasn’t right.” He pauses. “But yes, Ostagar gave me the death I would have to seek for in the Deep Roads later. Or maybe some other fight would do that.”

“You might have fought alongside us until the end of the Blight. You might have lead us, mentored us.” She shakes her head, then lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Maker, that sounds so selfish...”

“I don’t think you’re selfish,” denies Duncan gently. “Comes with being a Warden.”

“I feel selfish when I think that.”

“Then don’t. Don’t let yourself feel like that, and don’t dwell on those thoughts. You can and will do it.”

“Because someone has to.”

Duncan look at her, his eyes shadowed by sadness, but speaking clearly how proud he is of her. “That’s how it begins: because someone has to. And then legends of heroes are born.”

“I never wanted that.”

“I know.” He notices the dream is beginning to dissolve, and offers a tentative, comforting smile. “Tread safely, Warden.”

 _Warden_.

It has been but a dream, and she expected nothing else, but when she wakes up, that still stings.

He is a memory. A ghost. He is everything she needs right now. Would be, if he was alive. It bewilders her, how every time she needs solace she turns to the memory of him, to those few dreams. Because he would have understood all the dilemmas she has to face, for he has been there.

When she is cold, and curls up under a blanket to warm herself up, memories of the road to Ostagar come unbidden, Duncan’s shoulder a pillow under her head, his warmth next to her, his voice, hushed, telling her another story.

Alistair would be a far more rational choice. But when she had to grow up completely over a course of few weeks, Alistair is still a child. Good, kind, not without a sense of humour, helping as much as he can... But he has given his duty over for her to perform. And as she lies sleepless, the weight of her duties bearing down on her, she cannot find it in her to forgive him.

* * *

 

There is a hooded man leaning against the Keep wall at the foot of the stairs, a dog dozing beside him. Noticing her, he immediately reaches for his weapon, but decides against it equally quickly.

“It’s all right, Kell.” Duncan is walking down the stairs. “She’s one of us.”

The hooded man – a ranger? a hunter? – is watching her, she is certain, even though the shadows under the hood obscure his face.

“I can sense that much. The question is... What is she doing here?”

“We’re in the Fade. So I suppose I’m dreaming.” This is the second time someone is asking that question, and it makes her uncomfortable.

The hunter straightens. “This cannot be, Duncan.”

“What cannot be?” she asks, before Duncan has a chance to speak.

“This place, girl, is where _dead_  Wardens go. And you’re not dead. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Kell,” Duncan chastises. Then he sighs. “Come,” he turns to her. “I’ll show you a way out of here.”

As the hunter moves, the hood slips back a little and the shadows recede, so when, unexpectedly, he smiles, the smile is visible.

“Show her the griffons.” His face sobers quickly. “But then, she must leave.”

Duncan leads her past the Keep, further up the path. They walk out onto a wide ledge, overlooking a foggy valley closed by a chain of snowy peaks. There is a quiet murmur of water somewhere close.

For a few moments, they just stand, motionless and silent. She is breathing the cold, fresh air, and admiring the landscape, simply enjoying Duncan’s presence beside her. Then, suddenly, there is a rustle of wings.

“A real griffon?” she asks, baffled, not quite believing her eyes when a magnificent grey creature lands on the nearby rocks.

“We’re in the Fade,” Duncan explains, then smiles briefly.

The griffon moves over to them, and screeches, recognizing Duncan. Then it moves its head and glances at her, sniffing, decides she can be trusted and nudges her hand with its head.

Duncan chuckles – a short-lived, low, surprisingly pleasant sound. “Come, leave the lady be,” he scolds, but not without humour, putting a hand on the griffon’s neck.

“It’s all right.” She reaches out, to gently stroke the soft feathers, and the griffon gives something not quite unlike a cat’s purr. Then her palm moves further and touches Duncan’s gauntleted hand. She is not looking at him – there is no need, for she already knows he will not respond, and so, even though he does not withdraw, she does not press further.

Duncan moves his hand, and she is ready to dart hers away, but then his palm closes over hers, his hold light, for his gauntlets are steel and made for fighting, not this. She does not _dare_  look up at him.

“Duncan...” she blurts out, in a breathless whisper.

“We’re in the Fade,” he repeats softly, and it is a reason, an explanation, a reminder.

Fade, after all, is a realm of dreams. Nothing less, but nothing more.

* * *

 

The Deep Roads are... awkwardly, ‘deep’ is the best word to describe them. There is an oppressing feeling of being surrounded by a sea of stone and darkness, and... Something more. This used to be dwarven reign once. And it still remembers. The roots of stone reach into the core of the world, in space and time, as do its memories.

At first, she does not notice, focusing on their search and on fighting the groups of darkspawn they encountered. But then, slowly, she becomes aware of the signs. A rusty shard of iron that used to be a sword. A crushed helmet. A patch of material with a barely visible stitch – a wing of the Grey Warden griffon.

During her watches, she feels there is yet more to it. The earth and stones around them are soaked with darkness and shed blood and... _feelings_. Sudden fear at being all alone in the deep shadows. Grim determination. Despair. Bitterness at having no other choice, but also certainty that was the only way, and memories of the last sacrifice, offered willingly. And, also, shockingly, peace, found in the most unexpected place.

As they proceed deeper, she feels, at the edge of her senses, a presence. Not exactly powerful enough to influence anything, but not hostile either. Watching. Warning. Grey Wardens standing their last watch for ones of their own.

It is in the Deep Roads it happens for the first time. Like the impression of just barely audible footsteps, of a shape at the edge of vision. As if someone was walking with them.

Soundlessly, she whispers a name into the darkness, and each time she does that, the fear subsides, and each time she does that in battle, her hand strikes stronger.

It is her watch, hers and Wynne’s. She is looking into the fire, remembering another fire, and stars humming the old melody, wondering how long it has been since the Deep Roads sounded with a song. A quiet challenge to the darkness.

Wynne looks at her, and slowly, she nods.

* * *

 

As soon as the dream begins, she closes her eyes. She does not wish to see Ostagar or even the Keep.

“Duncan,” she calls softly, but surely.

Nothing happens.

She opens her eyes in resignation. Around her is a forest, the one she always gets lost in on her searches of the Keep. There is no sign the dream is about to end, so she finds a fallen tree, half-covered by moss, and sits on it.

Something rustles high among the branches, then moves, quick, quick, like an arrow.

“That’s a squirrel,” says a voice into her ear, quietly.

She freezes. But the taint in her answers to him, so there can be no mistake.

“Duncan...”

The red smear moves lower now, in their direction.

Duncan puts something into her hand: a nut. The squirrel is already skittering across a patch of grass, right towards her. Slowly, she stretches her hand a little, holding her breath as the tiny ball of red fur notices the nut in her palm and moves towards it. The squirrel sniffs at the nut, then snatches it and jumps up the nearest tree.

To her utter surprise, she discovers she is smiling. It feels like those stolen moments of peace on the road to Ostagar. So calm. Touching.

She realises Duncan has not moved, and is kneeling behind her, leaning over the fallen tree, his shoulder brushing hers. She moves, slowly, slowly, even more so than a moment ago with the squirrel, afraid to scare a far more fretful animal.

Duncan makes no move, but does not withdraw either, just lets her lean against him slightly. Her tower of strength. It is all so simple, so simple...

“Is it always like that?” she asks.

“It’s trying to do all the things that need to be done and some that don’t but can be,” Duncan explains.

She turns, to see the expression on his face and the look in his eyes, resting her hand on his shoulder for balance. His face if calm, like it has always been in life, but there is a sadness to his eyes.

“Duncan?”

“Hush...” he says softly, dismissing whatever she was going to tell him. “Remember what I’ve told you. Remember that...”

She puts two fingers across his lips to silence him. “I know. And now I understand.”

“I wish you didn’t have to,” he says, his words a sigh.

She smiles at him then, a smile much older than her face. “Someone has to pay. I know the price now. I pay willingly.”

When she wakes, she still remembers. She will not be alone, for she carries the memory of him with her, along with memories of Highever.

Another girl will live safely with her family. Another young woman will wed an honest, honourable man. Another will have a calm, quiet life. But she will have the memories of her family and home, warm and strong, magnified by shed tears and all the clearer for it. She will have the road to Ostagar, mirrored endlessly in her dreams, with fear and uncertainty accompanying her, but no despair, and Duncan will walk that road with her. She will make sure that old melody she remembers from childhood should still be sung across Ferelden, and that is a good case to fight for.


	4. Flames

She had not realised how she has been a Cousland all the time, despite everything. A Grey Warden, yes, but still a Cousland to the bone. She thought she had left it behind, but no, never, and Howe’s face and words stung like a sword wound.

Now her sword is red with Howe’s blood, _finally_ , and even though it might be wrong she whispers a thanksgiving prayer to the Maker. At least justice is done – it gives her nothing, it does not make her feel better, and the empty hole in her heart is not miraculously healed, but that quiet rage eating her up from the inside is gone.

She would have let Howe live, had defeating the Blight demanded it, but she is thankful she did not have to.

In the night, dreaming, she finds herself standing among the smothered stone walls of Highever. There are traces of ash here and there, and she grits her teeth, knowing this is all that is left of people she knew. She goes down to the kitchen. There, she kneels, unsheathes the family sword and lays it down on the ground, dried blood and steel a sharp contrast against the ashes.

“Justice is done,” she says solemnly. _Rest in peace. You are avenged._ She blinks away the sudden tears. “Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Father.” Saying goodbye to the past she can now leave behind. There are no more unresolved matters, no promises to keep, no other duties but one.

There is a softest sound of footsteps, and then a warm hand touches her shoulder.

She gets up and turns, her gaze meeting familiar dark eyes. A tiny smile floats up onto her lips – slightly bitter, but peaceful nonetheless, because she knows the cost now. She _has paid_. There is nothing more she can give away but her life, and that price does not seem so high, not after everything. “Lead on, Duncan. I am ready.”

* * *

 

The night is quiet, but it is a silence before a storm. Anxiety is dense in the air, and so is fear. On the morrow they march to Denerim, and there will be only one chance. Will there be anything to save once they get there?

She tosses and turns, but she cannot get comfortable enough to get asleep. After all the time on the road, the bed in Arl Eamon’s estate is too soft. There are also decisions, but she would rather not think about them, not now.

Guilford senses her discomfort and lets out a soft whine, then looks up at her.

“I’m all right, boy,” she says, though it feels pathetic, lying even to her own dog. She is not afraid of the final duty awaiting her, but... She cannot help but wish there was someone with her on the eve of the battle.

Sighing, she sits up on the bed, then reaches out for her dagger, one she got after helping in the Alienage. One that had belonged to Duncan. She recognizes he had an identical one at Ostagar, and wonders whether the two blades used to be a pair.

Her fingers follow the edges of the blade carefully, then move along the inscription engraved on the hilt: ‘In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice,’ and she wonders if there is true peace to be found in death. Then she looks at her reflection in the steel, and, for a moment, the face she sees there is Duncan’s, not hers.

When she falls asleep, she dreams almost exactly the same scene: her sitting on the bed, a warm shawl draped across her shoulders, and the dagger in her hand. Only this time, when she glances at the reflection in the steel, she sees two faces.

“Your dagger,” she murmurs, not turning around.

“Ah, yes. Genevieve gave it to me. Two of them; twin blades. But then I switched one for a sword.”

She looks at him, puzzled. “Who’s Genevieve?”

“She was Commander of the Grey in Orlais when I joined.” At her motion, Duncan sits on the bed. For once, he is not wearing his armour, just breeches and a simple tunic, the same she had seen on the road to Ostagar. “It’s a long story. And not a pretty one either.”

She smiles at him briefly, bitterly. “I know how not pretty stories look like, Duncan.”

“Yes... Yes,  you do.” There is this familiar expression to his face, not quite sadness, but not neutral either.

“Duncan, don’t. I’m... I can manage. I _do_  manage.”

“I know. Yet I can’t help but wish it might have been otherwise.”

“But it’s not.” She reaches out, and remembers about the dagger far too late; there is a brief flash of pain and a red mark blossoms where the blade caught on her palm, right along her lifeline. She curls her fingers around the gash. A drop of blood seeps through her fingers, soon followed by another.

Duncan takes her hand in his, gently, his touch soothing. In a moment, her blood is seeping through his fingers, but he does not break the hold.

* * *

 

The power of the strike throws her against the stone wall, and she slumps onto the ground. So it ends here. Strange, but she is not afraid, not even moved. She is… glad. All will be over, all responsibilities, everything. She will meet her family again, see Mother and Father… But not yet, not for a while longer. There is one last duty she has to fulfil.

She tries to get up, hissing with pain, prepared for tremendous effort of tired muscles... but there is none. It feels as if someone was holding her, supporting, helping her to get up. She closes her eyes briefly, and right the moment her eyes are both close and opened, there is a glint of silver armour at her shoulder, right behind her. When she is standing on her feet again, she feels strength coming back to her.

Everything that happens next is a whirl of sensations. There is a blast of fire, followed by lightning, and the archdemon roars, the sound boring into her thoughts and mind. Someone – Arl Eamon? – shouts, there is a soothing halo of Wynne’s healing magic, another fire blast – Irving? – and the dragon moves, swishing its tail, and when she hits the stones again there is a crunch of bones breaking, and a searing pain in her side. The archdemon’s song is soaring in her head. She tries to get up, but cannot, her legs are not listening, her hands are not listening, she can only lie there and gasp in pain. She failed. She failed... on the last step of such a long road... Tears of rage well up in her eyes.

Gritting her teeth, hands grasping at the stone, she gets up. Breathing gets more difficult, but she moves slowly, with grim determination, shuffling her feet with effort.

“Duncan,” she pleads, in ragged whisper. “Duncan, hold me up...”

Then she remembers. A part of her mind can still recall the old melody Nan had taught her, the same Duncan had hummed on the way to Ostagar, the same she has sung in the Deep Roads. It is much more quiet than the archdemon’s song echoing through the taint, and yet much clearer.

She glimpses Wynne, shoulder in shoulder with Irving, and as the mages raise their staffs, the sound of thunder rolls through the air, followed by twin lightning. She glimpses blades piercing into the archdemon’s skull, hers and someone else’s, but she can barely see because of the blood trickling down her forehead and over her eyes.

And then there is a blast of light, an implosion, and something in the very air and matter _shifts_ , and she knows it is _done_.

She slumps onto the ground. There is blood seeping between her fingers – this is the end. When she slips into unconsciousness she is smiling, a full, triumphant smile, first such since Highever.

* * *

 

The Warden’s Keep seems closer, and this time there is light, not unlike sun, but softer. Nothing is blurry now; so she is not dreaming, but has truly entered the Fade.

She walks up the wide stony steps, quickly, quickly, almost there... Duncan is waiting at the top of the stairs, and she slows down, not certain what to do, what to say, not even certain she is supposed to be here.

“You made it,” Duncan says, smiling at her, his smile proud, but the look in his eyes is softer than that.

She stops right before him. “Duncan...” She looks up at him, completely at a loss. Hesitantly, slow like in a dream – is it not a dream, since she is in the Fade? – she raises her hand to touch his shoulder tentatively. Duncan is still at first, then she feels his palm cupping her elbow.

And then her arms are around his neck and he is holding her to him, one palm cradling her head. He is warm and real, as real as he has been in life.

* * *

 

She dreams. There is Wynne’s worried face, leaning above her, or her silhouette standing at the door whenever she opens her eyes. There is Guilford’s quiet whining from under the bed, and sometimes his furry body warming up her feet.

There is Teagan – and a blurry memory that if not for the demise of Highever and her becoming a Warden, and the Blight, and the fact they both have always resented the very idea of an arranged marriage, he might have become her husband – a kind friend, a worried look on his face. Is this Redcliffe? It is difficult to recognize the place while her forehead and thoughts are hot with fever.

Why is she abed? She was wounded fighting the archdemon, yes, but she is dead, in the Fade, with Duncan. She is... happy. Happier, anyway. The duty here is calmer, much less distressing...

Guildford’s howl cuts through the air and she wakes. For a moment, she is not certain where she is, because she has just spotted Alistair and Wynne beside the bed, but it is Warden’s Keep, is it not?

Duncan is standing at the door, watching her, and she notices how his eyes are different than they used to be. Deeper. Wiser. He looks as if he is going to speak, and suddenly she is afraid of what he will say, but he remains silent. He walks across the room, kneels beside her and strokes her hair. Then, most gently, he touches her cheek.

When she turns her head to press a kiss into his palm, he does not withdraw.

* * *

 

They are standing on the top of the tower, looking down. The Pass is pooling with soft mist again.

“The Pass,” she begins, glancing at Duncan. “Will you tell me what is it really?” In a way, it feels like that night months ago, when they were both standing on the top of one of Highever towers.

“The Pass is where souls cross the Fade, to... to whatever lies beyond, I suppose. Afterlife.”

“And the Wardens?” She saw Sophia again, and Kell the hunter, she met Riordan, she glimpsed Loghain and Genevieve. “How long do we have to stay here?”

“Wardens will guard the Pass until the Black City is purged. But not all of us have to stay. Wouldn’t it be unfair to get only this, after years of faithful service?” Duncan asks, with a slight smile.

“I guess.” She turns to him. “But you didn’t go.”

“No. I’m used to the Warden’s life, and the Warden’s life is duty.”

“Isn’t it difficult? I mean, there are demons...”

“Yes, there are. But, see, we reside in the Fade, but don’t belong here. They have no power over us.” Duncan pauses. “It is easier than fighting darkspawn. There’s no fear we’re too few, or we don’t know what to do. And not much actual fighting. I’d say it is a rest, kind of.”

“It feels so peaceful here.”

Duncan covers her palm with his. “Yes, sometimes it can be.”

* * *

 

She is dreaming, again. There is Wynne, with face tight with concentration, sitting beside her and murmuring incomprehensible spells. There is something warm at her feet, and she knows it is Guilford, only this time he is quiet. Someone leans over her, familiar features drawn with worry. Fergus.

Fergus?!

She wakes up instantly, getting up into a sitting position in one swift move. Fergus? Maker, Fergus? Alive... Fergus is alive.

She laughs, even though tears are streaming down her cheeks. For so long, she had been thinking Fergus was dead... and now when it turns out he made it somehow, she is.

She cannot stop crying, and laughing, and this is nothing short of hysteria... For a time – she knows not how long – she is just sitting like that, her laughter filling the room, her cheeks wet with tears. Finally, she brushes the tears away with the sleeve of her tunic, then gets up and walks out of the room .

The battlements overlooking the Pass are empty, like usual, for no demons could come from there. It is quiet, and peaceful, and, gradually, the mood of the place helps her calm down.

Oh, the irony... But there is nothing she can do about that anyway. Fergus is alive, he will reclaim Highever. It has to be enough. Even if she knows he would rather be with his wife and son and parents, reunited with them in death.

She does not turn at the sound of quiet footsteps. Duncan stops beside her, resting his hands on the wall and leaning on them. It does not take him long to notice something is amiss.

“What is it?” he asks gently, turning to her.

“My brother...” she whispers. “Fergus is alive. And I’m dead.” She lets out a quiet laugh, blinking tears away. “He’s alive. Alive.” This time, her whisper sounds like a grateful prayer, despite everything.

* * *

 

“This isn’t right,” Duncan says suddenly. They are both sitting on the stairs right at the main gate, watching as the no-sun settles over the mountains, replaced by a semblance of stars.

“I don’t understand,” she replies, but they both know she is lying.

“Yes, you do. It’s not your time yet.” Duncan looks at her softly. “You made stopping the Blight possible. Think how much more you can accomplish.”

“I don’t want to.” She wishes she could meet Fergus. But returning... it would mean fighting and choices all over again. She is tired of fighting and choices. She leans against Duncan, resting her head on his shoulder. “Haven’t I done enough already?”

“The price of being able to do so much,” Duncan says, “is being able to do so much. This isn’t a matter of wanting, it never was.”

“Duty,” she sighs.

“Yes. Duty. Striving to leave the world a little better than you found it.”

“Does it ever end? Duty,” she specifies.

“Maybe it does, on the other side of the Pass.” Duncan smiles. “Or maybe not.”

Sighing, she closes her eyes. He is right. She cannot just give up, even if knowing this does not make anything easier.

“Whenever your time comes, I shall be there,” Duncan says quietly, and is sounds like a promise. “In the meantime, please do something for me. _Live_.”

She looks up at him. “I will go back,” she agrees. “I will see to the Wardens’ rebuilding, I’ll do what needs to be done, and some things that don’t need to but can be.”

“And we’ll meet here again some good twenty years from now.”

She reaches for his hand and takes it in both of hers, then smiles at him. “It’s settled, then.”

Duncan gets up, gently pulling her up with him. “There’s something I’d like to show you, before you go.”

She nods, and suddenly the landscape whirls and changes. They are standing on the road, facing a castle, and her breath catches in her throat because she can recognize every stone in the wall – this is _Highever_. There are banners billowing on the wind on the battlements and towers, where they used to, only now the banners are grey. Griffons stitched witch grey, white and silver thread, flying over Highever.

“Home...” she whispers, involuntarily. “Duncan, what is it?” she asks, wide-eyed, baffled. Even then, she knows the answer before he speaks it, _feels_  the answer in her heart.

“You’ve already said that. You just have to return and make it so.”

“I will.”

He smiles at her, a farewell smile, both saddened and happy, and surprisingly tender. “Then farewell, and when the time comes, we shall see each other again.”

She smiles back, finally having found acceptance and peace, and the courage to actually _live_  again. “Meet me in the Deep Roads.”


End file.
